


Over me and over you

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Developing Relationship, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4462130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's friction, then slipperiness, and finally words which are mix of the two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over me and over you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> Fill for the watersports square in my Season of Kink card.
> 
> For amyfortuna, who prompted Fëanor/Fingolfin for it.

At first it had been only scuffles, sweaty wrangling in the sand of a riverbank so secluded from the main roads to put enough distance between them and their families and the public to create the illusion that they had nothing else to worry about apart from their contest - and each other - until the mingling warned them it was time to go back. They were both reconciled to the fact that they hadn't been made to get along, and that those scuffles were the best form of coexistence they could aim at – better, at any rate, than letting anger and rivalry simmer under the surface, for after they exhausted themselves, they could lie side by side and for a while be just two men who didn't get along but respected each other enough to face it. 

It didn't take too long before the clash of bodies, the firmness of limbs locking and pressing, of skin sliding against skin, effected a change – a progression. There was sex, release that worked just as well as exhaustion did, and was only – they both insisted to themselves – the same sort of physical venting. But when the frenzied grinding against each other in the heat of the fight – while they were wrapped around each other and arousal came as naturally as the next attempt to pin the other down – further progressed to the use hands and then mouths, it was hard not to think of it as something altogether different, something more. 

They didn't talk about it. Both were wary of bandying words over sex, because words were riskier, and sex much more uncomplicated.

So they wrestled, after reaching the river by different routes and undressing, and let their bodies take over. 

Ñolofinwë had managed to pin Fëanáro under himself that day, and they were stroking each other as they had by then done many times already, when he suddenly realised that his most immediate need wasn't sexual release. 

Fëanáro sensed the change in him, felt him tense and felt his length twitch against his hand. He curled his fingers around it to pull harder on it, stroking his foreskin back and forth over his cockhead. 

“No -” he protested, doing his best to hold back, and quickly covered Fëanáro's hand with his own. “I need to -...relieve myself.”

“...then go,” Fëanáro said, sounding amused, and tried to pull his hand away.

He didn't let him. “Let me -...let me do it here.”

“What?”

“I -” His breath hitched. His need proved too great, and, still clutching Fëanáro's hand, he let go. 

His piss spilled from him in a thick, gushing stream.

Fëanáro went completely rigid, but Ñolofinwë couldn't bring himself to stop.

He had the outrageous urge to aim at Fëanáro's face instead, but he knew he had gone too far already, and that he couldn't have stopped for _any_ reason. He could just hope Fëanáro wouldn't try to get away, because he doubted he would have let him go, and then it wouldn't be a game anymore. Fëanáro, brow knitted, stared intently at the liquid cascading on his chest and flowing down along its ripples to soak the curls of his pubic hair. Then, as the stream began to thin, he lifted his free hand to intercept it. For a couple of moments he watched it drip between his fingers, almost – Ñolofinwë dared to imagine – in fascination. And then he did what Ñolofinwë would never have dared to hope. He brought the hand to his face, and tasted the fluid – not by lapping at it but eagerly swallowing all he had managed to catch in his cupped palm. Ñolofinwë let out a rowdy moan at the sight. If it had been physically possible for him to come at the same time, he would have. 

He was unprepared when a second later Fëanáro shook off his hold and surged, pushing him back into the sand. 

He didn't have any time to protest, or any reason to. Fëanáro stooped over his groin, mouthed his cock and drank the last of his piss directly from it. 

He arched into his mouth, helpless, burying the back of his head in the sand, but he didn't care about the mess or the scrape of the tiny grains on his shoulders, because Fëanáro was having even that of him, Fëanáro _wanted_ to have it – his lips and his tongue licking unrelentingly at his slit, catching every tardy drop – and everything else was rendered meaningless.

Fëanáro kept on sucking him – at times letting his lips glide down his shaft, but mostly keeping them locked just below his glans – while Ñolofinwë mouthed nonsense and clutched vainly at the sand, until he had wrested a wracking orgasm from him. 

He was still trembling and breathing erratically when Fëanáro straightened, and licked his lips. Their gazes met. The frown had disappeared from Fëanáro's face, but his expression remained almost contemplative.

“I -” he began, after regaining a measure of self-control, not entirely sure if he wanted to apologise or justify himself or say what had been left unsaid until then.

Fëanáro clicked his tongue, looking all of a sudden more mischievous than anything else. “You take some risky liberties...little brother,” he said, putting a calculated emphasis on the appellative he usually refused to use, a murmur halfway between a purr and a reproach. “May I treat you in turn?”

Ñolofinwë nodded giddily, though he felt the movement wasn't half as emphatic as he would have wanted it to be. 

Fëanáro took his own half-turgid cock in hand and, never breaking eye contact, stroked himself until he was sufficiently relaxed to release his own piss. 

Ñolofinwë gasped the moment it hit his chest, just between his collarbones, hot and pungent, and without a second thought raised his hands to spread it all over the rest of it, his neck, and his face, bathing himself in it.

Fëanáro sat back on his haunches and heaved a blissful sigh once he was done. Ñolofinwë didn't fight the urge to yank him down, the wetness on their chests producing a sharp slapping sound as they collided. Fëanáro huffed in what might have been a feeble protest, but adjusted his position by throwing his right leg over his body, and lay his head on his left shoulder. 

The moment was close to perfect – so intimate that it felt almost like a sin to disturb it, and yet _too_ intimate to let it slip away without trying to fix it. 

“This -...it means we are close, doesn't it?” Ñolofinwë said. He was cautious with words by nature, and in that situation there was only so much he could say to hint at what he wanted to hear without saying it himself. The hand he put to Fëanáro's nape was perhaps more eloquent. 

Fëanáro's reply came after a while; Ñolofinwë thought he had dozed off. “Oh...stuck together with god's glue.”

“What?”

Fëanáro chortled, a sound that rippled softly against Ñolofinwë's skin. “Eru made us of hröa as well as fëa didn't he?...with all that it entails.”

“...then, what does that make us?”

“I'd say we better bathe, unless you want to go home reeking of -”

“Answer me,” Ñolofinwë demanded. 

The lightheartedness left Fëanáro, and he lifted himself, shifting to straddle him, until his face hovered right above his, and kissed him – a gentle brush of lips that was more than eloquent, but wasn't the avowal Ñolofinwë wanted from him.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Fëanáro still said nothing. He tried to straighten, but Ñolofinwë grabbed his face and held it.

“You told me we could never be brothers. We aren't friends and we aren't enemies anymore, either. Unless I am to infer that you would let anybody do what I just did.”

“What about you?”

“Stop prevaricating!”

“You want a declaration of love?” Fëanáro taunted.

Ñolofinwë clenched his jaw. He stared into Fëanáro's eyes, closer than they had ever been before. He did nothing when Fëanáro rolled off him to lie at his side, but waited until Fëanáro had relaxed, rolled on top of him and pinned him beneath himself again. 

“I will have it.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...I apologise to U2 for misusing a line from their song Staring at the Sun in the title and in the fic ( _Over me and over you, stuck together with god's glue_ ).


End file.
